


BLOODLINE

by livingforfiction



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Multi, she might be a bitch but i'm sure she has a soft side
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingforfiction/pseuds/livingforfiction
Summary: Before she killed the leader and carried out a coup, she conceived a child with him. Now stripped away of any apex of power she once -briefly- had, her unplanned child could be the piece that changes the course of things. In her favor, or against it.[AU] after season 2 finale





	BLOODLINE

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well. I'm still sad this show didn't get renewed.  
> I've had this idea wandering in my mind for a while. This vile human being that is Emma, I actually happen to like her lol. I thought this could be a good kickstarter for another season, shall it happen. Back in North Korea, we never actually see where the bullet hits her, we only see her lying down on the ground.  
> Sooo, i love reviews, i love dms, i love feedback, i'd love to know if you like this. Thanks for reading!

  


North Korea, 1950.

  
  


_Cold._ Numbing, painfully numbing. First, she hears the distant voices surrounding her… They’re soft, and then they feel closer. Something pulls her head up, and she feels it swinging for a bit, until it stabilizes. She’s awake, she feels awake, but her eyes don’t open. Someone is talking to her. “ _It’s okay”,_ she hears. A male voice. She can’t quite remember where she is, what happened before she blacked out. **A sudden and gut-wrenching pain invades her body like a bolt; it’s coming from her neck.** Maybe it’s the intensity of the pain that now forced her eyes open. She feels a bit of relief that she still has a sight, even though she’s still disoriented. Something clearly happened to her. But it’s all a blur, what she sees, figures resembling bodies that kneel and position in front of her. The male voice is heard again in her brain: “ _A shot to the neck. No arteries reached, but she’s losing blood”._ Another voice mumbles something she can’t understand, and the loudest voice goes again: “ _Hurry up. She’s barely conscious”._ Her head is propped up, probably by this person’s hand. Her eyes start focusing slowly on the person in front of her. The lines seem clearer now, the silhouette gains definition, and she finally catches sight of the man who’s been holding her. “ _It’s okay”,_ he repeats, and she clings to his voice before she passes out, losing the small amount of consciousness she got.

………………………………………………………………………………………………..

  
  


She wakes up feeling no better than before. But this time, her vision improved. She’s lying on a stretcher, an improvised thing, like the ones they put up in… medical tents. Now she sees it. It has to be a medical tent, there are other people around her, wounded and softly humming in their attempted sleep. She tries sitting up, but soon feels it’s not a good idea: her head is still spinning. Lying back down, she feels something on her neck, and takes her hand there, sneaking it beneath the blanket over her and her coat. It feels like a bandage, a thick piece of gauze secured with… tape. When she presses her fingers over it, it hurts. It makes her gasp, so she knows she’s been hurt. Piece by piece, she starts gathering the images and sounds of her previous experience, just a few hours ago: the man, the voices, the pain in her neck. **CHRISTOPHER, CAHILL, THE DAMN TEAM.** Uh-huh. Now she remembers alright. They think she's dead, they left her there and probably took off in the mothership, which is logical, why wouldn't they leave her there? The question that now circled around in Emma's mind was: How the hell am I gonna get out from 1950 North Korea?

"You're awake" a whisper comes up from behind, followed by a silhouette that soon kneels beside her. "How are you feeling?"

"Uh…" think, Emma, think. What's the best choice now? Tell the truth, or play dumb? "I'm sore. What happened?" Dumb it is.

"We found you out in the snow, some colleagues and I. Open sky, no one around except dead bodies. Thank God the Communists didn't see you."

"Oh." Emma nods. "Was I shot?"

"Yes. In the neck, but we took the bullet out, and we stitched. You should get better with some rest."

She starts feeling the uneasiness of having to improvise -and fear, although she wouldn't admit it-.

"What's your name?" The doctor in a uniform asks.

"Emma."

He smiles to her, a caring, honest smile. With the help of a faint, weak streak of light coming from outside, she can quite take in the face of the man in front of her. A good looking kind, she thought.

"And you?"

"I'm Colonel Layton."

"That's not your name."

He chuckles. "Leon."

"That's pretty."

A silence. In that second, she falls into realization of where and when she is, with a complete stranger and no plan. "Please tell me there's some other vehicle departing this place anytime soon."

"Well… actually, the last boat left yesterday. But, some of us are coming back home soon in official leave, they're sending a plane. Why are you here?"

"Uhm… I'm a teacher. My husband and I lived here for a few years."

"Where's your husband?"

"Dead."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Silence. He's feeling pity, she can read that in a face.

"You're looking to go home?"

"Yes. As fast as I can. I have nothing in here anymore."

"I'll talk to my superiors. I'll see what we can do with some civilians we have in here. Including you."

"Thank you."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...

  
  


Soon, the night was morning. And when she woke up, this time she was able to sit up. She breathed in and tried her best to put her mind at work, trying to come up with perfect stories and excuses in case she got asked. As far as she knew, she may go back to the 1950 US in a plane… soon. God knows what 'soon' means. Staying in 1950 wouldn't be that bad. She still knows a few people, and there is a certain account she opened and kept active in case something like this happened… or maybe something less dramatic and disastrous. 1925, it was. She made one of the men, obviously, open it for her. There's not a fortune, but shall she need it, it's there. So she's safe on that matter. There is no way she could go back to her present. A while later, after sitting there trying to stretch her extremities and keep the blood circulating, the Colonel went to check on her. He brought a metal cup and something wrapped on napkins.

"It's hot milk." He says, offering the cup.

"Thank you", she replies with a kindness that would usually be faked coming from her, but to her own surprise, it's not. He's good. Maybe after getting shot and waking up in a completely strange place, her human side -although very, very small- is holding to the smallest show of good intentions. "And these…" he unwraps the paper. "Are toasts. One of my colleagues makes them every morning… whenever we have bread, of course."

She smiles, presses her hands softly against the metal, her nose already cold.

"Do you have family?" She asks.

"I have kids. Two. A boy and a girl. Do you?"

She shakes her head briefly.

"What did your husband do?"

Think, Emma. A soldier wasn't a good idea, he would probably ask a lot. "He worked for the government. The embassy."

“How long ago did he pass?”

“Almost a year.”

He nods, bows his head lightly, for respect, the same thing we all do.

“So, what were you... doing in there? Out in the snow.”

“I was trying to reach the shore. Get on a boat.” well, this is playing out perfect, Emma thought. All the pieces are fitting together. What is that look in his face, by the way? Does he like her, or is she allucinating?

“God willing, you're gonna be home soon.” he says. “Let me see that”, he adds, reaching for her bandage. She leans forward, he sits beside her, and slowly takes off the tape. The gauze lifts off, revealing the freshly injured, recently stitched wound. The threads are thick and probably not the most suitable for sewing a bullet hole, but it will at least keep it from bleeding out.

“Does it hurt?” the Colonel asks.

“Not quite”, she replies, frowning in surprise.

“Good. I put on Rosemary when I stitched.”

“Does that work?”

“Apparently, it does. Or at least it lowered your inflammation”.

He cleaned the area and changed the gauze. While on that, she took the time to analyze her saviour. First notice, no ring. Second, a scar on the right side of his forehead, a generous count of stitches. Ten, maybe. His hair covered half of it, that’s why it took her this long to see it.

  


Later, that afternoon, the craved information reached the medical tent.

“A plane is arriving tomorrow morning”, said the soldier, kneeling beside Emma’s bed.

“Is it?”

He nods. “You and a few other civilians we found wandering around are coming with us”.

“Oh Jeez. Thank God”, whispers a grateful Emma, who is now playing some wonderful act, but also wishing she comes up with something before they land. “Where are we going?

“Fort Bragg”.

“Carolina”, she says. “Good”.

“You have someone in there?”

“I do, actually”. The face of her mother pops up in her head, a flash of a bright, cold morning, like the picture of the little girl she had on the door of the cabinet in her bathroom, back in the Rittenhouse quarters.

“Good”, says the Colonel, smiling kindly at a shaken Emma.

Once he’s gone, she lays a hand over her lower belly, hoping she finds a solution, an answer to what’s wrong or what’s right. Just hours before Christopher and Cahill stormed into her office, she had spent the most terrifying ten minutes of her life sitting on the toilet. She has never before felt the weight that carries the burden of knowing you’re gestating someone inside your body.


End file.
